. I know just
what that kind of loss means. It means very much," said he, letting his
deep-set eyes rest with sympathy upon the face of the younger man. Kenyon
put a whisky and soda by Chayne's elbow, and setting the tobacco jar on a
little table between them, sat down and lighted his pipe.

"You came back at once?" he asked.

"I crossed the Col Dolent and went down into Italy," replied Chayne.

"Yes, yes," said Kenyon, nodding his head. "But you will go back next
year, or the year after."

"Perhaps," said Chayne; and for a little while they smoked their pipes in
silence. Then Chayne came to the object of his visit.

"Kenyon," he asked, "have you any photographs of the people who went
climbing twenty to twenty-five years ago? I thought perhaps you might
have some groups taken in Switzerland in those days. If you have, I
should like to see them."

"Yes, I think I have," said Kenyon. He went to his writing-desk and
opening a drawer took out a number of photographs. He brought them back,
and moving the green-shaded lamp so that the light fell clear and strong
upon the little table, laid them down.

Chayne bent over them with a beating heart. Was his suspicion to be
confirmed or disproved?

One by one he took the photographs, closely examined them, and laid
them aside while Kenyon stood upright on the other side of the table.
He had turned over a dozen before he stopped. He held in his hand the
picture of a Swiss hotel, with an open space before the door. In the
open space men were gathered. They were talking in groups; some of them
leaned upon ice-axes, some carried _Ruecksacks_ upon their backs, as
though upon the point of starting for the hills. As he held the
photograph a little nearer to the lamp, and bent his head a little
lower, Kenyon made a slight uneasy movement. But Chayne did not notice.
He sat very still, with his eyes fixed upon the photograph. On the
outskirts of the group stood Sylvia's father. Younger, slighter of
build, with a face unlined and a boyish grace which had long since
gone--but undoubtedly Sylvia's father.

The contours of the mountains told Chayne clearly enough in what valley
the hotel stood.

"This is Zermatt," he said, without lifting his eyes.

"Yes," replied Kenyon, quietly, "a Zermatt you are too young to know,"
and then Chayne's forefinger dropped upon the figure of Sylvia's father.

"Who is this?" he asked.

Kenyon made no answer.

"It is Gabriel Strood," Chayne contin